#I don't know how to write on Ao3

[asher002]

I tried writing. A stupid writing :p (AvA 10~ AvA 11)

In a dark room with only one dangling light, the shadow of a person with an empty head lingers.

Victim stands blankly in the center of the light, thinking.Then, Victim put the rope around his neck. As if to show something.

Soon, the rope hits the floor with a dull sound, and the rope rolls across the floor, and the clear liquid flowing down Victim’s cheek shines in the light.

He was so afraid of someone, loved everything he saw while surviving, and hated someone so much that he wanted to tear them apart… Two hands that experienced it all grab his neck.

Slowly, the room resonates with a murmur that cannot be heard from his mouth as his hands tighten.

Is this joy or sadness? Is it a sense of liberation or a new chain?The most certain thing is that this is the end of dozens of deaths that he never wanted to experience again.

His head is dizzy because there is no air, and the body sends out warning signals dozens of times, but my hands are still in the same place.

Die, die, die, die

Die, die, die, die

Foolish victim.

You couldn't leave your place..

-Below is the original. (Korean)

달랑거리는 조명 하나 놔둔 어두컴컴한 방 안, 머리가 빈 한 인영의 그림자가 넘실거린다.

그 조명의 중앙으로 가 피해자는 우두커니 서 생각한다.

그러다 피해자는 밧줄을 자신의 목에다 대어보았다. 마치 무언가를 재보이듯이. 이내 밧줄이 바닥에 부딧히는 둔탁한 소리와 함께 밧줄이 저만치 바닥을 구르며, 피해자의 볼에 흐르는 투명한 액체가 조명의 빛을 받아 빛난다.

누군가를 너무나도 두려워했으며, 살아남아서 본 이 모든걸 사랑해 마지않고, 누군가를 찢어버리고 싶을정도로 증오했던… 그 모든걸 겪은 두 손이 그의 목을 움켜쥔다.

천천히, 조여드는 손길에 입에서는 채 나오지 못한 웅얼거림이 방을 울린다. 이것은 기쁨일까, 아니면 슬픔일까. 해방감일까 아니면 새로운 족쇄일까.

가장 확실한 건, 다시는 겪고싶지 않던 몇십번의 죽음의 끝이라는 것이다.

공기가 유입되지 않아 머리가 멍해지고, 몸이 위험신호를 수십번이고 보내도 손은 그 자리에서 요지부동이다.

죽어죽어죽어죽어 (Die)

죽여죽여죽여죽여 (Kill it)

어리석은 피해자.

자신의 자리를 벗어나질 못했구나

[callmeizukunotdeku]

"You're lying," Damian said. 

And honestly, Tim had to laugh, "I don't know why you think I am. I asked to keep a cat, Alfred said no, and that was that."

"But that..." Damian furrowed his brow. Tim's voice was taking on a different tenor than usual. Something a bit more strained. "He let me have a cat."

"Yeah," Tim said, cringing when his voice cracked on the word, before trying to play it off with a casual shrug, "you're his son."

And Damian was fooled for a moment. He had his mouth half open to reply that he was the blood son. He was different. Superior. 

But he paused upon the fact that Tim hadn't just made that point for him, he'd given him an example. 

The cat. 

Tim had wanted one and been refused. Damian had wanted one and had been obliged. 

He had wanted a dragon and been obliged. 

But Tim couldn't have a cat, and Damian, whenever he asserted his superiority, had thought he was lying. 

He was lying in a way. They were the same. Tim was a well-respected associate of his father, but... 

You're his son. 

But that didn't mean as much as Damian assumed it did. 

Damian assessed his options before doing something he usually avoided. He swallowed his pride, looked at Tim, and said, "I...don't fully understand what your place is here."

Tim gave him a smile filled with enough sympathy to make something ugly roll in Damian's gut. "Me neither, kid. Me neither."

[space-signals]

Lip Gloss

Steve Harrington shamefully wears girly lip gloss. Actually, he shamefully does a lot of girly things, but you can blame all that on Nancy Wheeler. 

Steve was just so infatuated with how she got to be so soft. It was the one reason he was dating her, because she was so pretty and soft. So naturally, back when they were dating, he asked her what her secret was and after some blissful teasing; she told him. From moisturizers to lip scrubs, Nancy Wheeler educated Steve on how to keep your body fresh and smooth. Naturally, Steve adopted all of these habits. Being the prettiest boy in Hawkins comes with a cost, okay? 

So now, every night before Steve went to bed and every morning before he went to work, he would do this extensive routine that kept his face shining like a waxed car. It was great. No one knew about it until one weekend when Steve had forgotten to hide his self-care products and Billy was over and went into the bathroom. 

“Do you have a sister?” Billy yelled from across the house. 

“What?” Steve was lying on his bed, reading some lame magazine and not even thinking about why Billy might’ve asked that. 

“Do you have a sister?” Billy asked again as he picked up a small jar of something that said ‘body butter’ with the hand that wasn’t currently zipping his pants up after peeing. 

Steve scoffed and stood up off his bed. “No, what would make you think thaa-…” Steve stopped in the middle of the hallway when he saw Billy holding a bottle of face spray that was supposed to hydrate your face in the morning. 

“So I can safely assume that these are all yours?” Billy asked with a smug look on his face. 

Steve bit his lip. He wanted to curl into a ball and explode. Why did Billy Hargrove have to be the one to find out about Steve’s most embarrassing secret? Twice!! Has the man done this, and both times did Steve hate it. 

“Maybe…” he whispered, and Billy’s smug face grew into an annoying smile. 

“I never took you for a pansy.” Billy teased as he picked up a bottle of his face cleanser. 

“I’m not a pansy for taking care of myself.” Steve bit back as he ripped the two skin-care products and slammed them back onto the sink counter. 

Billy spun him around by his waist, pushing him into the marble counter. “No, of course you’re not.” He agreed and smiled lazily at Steve. Leaning in to kiss him slowly, Steve’s heart fluttered with love as his hands hovered over the sides of Billy’s face. “I always wondered how you kept your lips so soft, and now I blame Noxzema.” 

“I actually use a lip scrub I made from honey and sugar.” Steve corrected. 

Billy rolled his eyes. “You’re so lame.” He said before leaning in for another slow kiss. 

And so now Billy Hargrove shamelessly always has chapstick in the back pocket of his jeans, or lip oil in his middle compartment, or some face serum in his glove box. There was always something there for Steve in case he forgot or believed he needed to touch himself up, which Billy thought was never because Steve was perfect in his eyes. And then he would gag himself right after thinking that. 

Steve’s habits didn’t go without teasing, of course. Steve would apply his chapstick and Billy would grab him by the neck and kiss him roughly before complementing the flavor, and Steve would have to reapply the chapstick, only for Billy to kiss him all over again. There were lots of times where Steve would put hand cream and Billy would mock him for masturbating at such a strange time, and when Steve did his nightly routine Billy would always make sure to point out the wrinkles that Steve did not have with a: “You missed your smile lines, grandma. Gotta put more cream on.” And Steve would slam his bathroom door shut. 

And of course, with all these feminine products lying around wherever Billy was, people were obviously going to notice. Like when Max found lip oil and lip gloss in Billy’s middle compartment of his car and hurriedly went to Steve and said: 

“Steve, I think Billy’s cheating on you.” Max whispered at the ice cream counter. 

Steve’s heart dropped because Billy and him had been doing so well and now all of sudden Max was coming to him and telling him that Billy was cheating!? Yeah he flirted with some of the moms at the pool, but that was because Billy was an ass who enjoyed fucking with people, but he wouldn’t cheat on Steve with a fucking mom! 

“What!?” He spit, a little too loud for the privacy of their conversation. 

“Yeah! I saw like lip oil and lip gloss in the compartment of his car.” 

Steve froze. Why did life have to play out this way for him? Why did Billy have to be such a caring boyfriend and let Steve leave his stuff around? Why the fuck did he have to be such a pansy? “Yeah, Max, that’s uh…” He didn’t know how to say this. Really, he could’ve played along with Max and been absolutely shocked that Billy was cheating on him. “That’s my stuff.” 

Max’s face contoured in confusion. “What…?” 

Steve sucked in a breath as he scratched his neck awkwardly. “Yeaah… I use… lip oil.” 

“And lip gloss?” 

Steve shamefully nodded his head. 

Max’s shoulders slumped. “Wow.” She said in amazement. “How is my brother dating you?” 

“I have no idea- Are you going to buy some ice cream?” 

Max stared at him for a second before saying yes and buying some chocolate ice cream and leaving in a daze. Robin opened up the glass dividers. 

“What was that about?” She asked. 

“I…” Steve turned around and leaned against the counter. “I don’t want to tell you.” 

“That’s a little rude, Stevie.” 

“What have I said about you calling me that?” He groaned. 

“That you love it.” 

“Oh, my- shut up.” He turned back around as Robin closed the glass dividers with little girl giggles. 

One thing that Steve loved about Billy was that he didn’t care, that was his favorite thing about his boyfriend. Billy didn’t give a single fuck about what anyone thought of him, and that included people thinking he was weird for carrying such feminine products on his person. Like the one time after the Starcourt incident when Billy, Robin, and him were walking out of a movie theater and Steve’s lips were feeling dry after eating all that popcorn. He started patting down his pockets for his chapstick, but he just couldn’t find any. 

Billy stopped and whipped something out of his pocket and handed Steve lip gloss.

“Oh, thanks.” Steve gleefully took the tube and applied it to his lips. And then a snort took him away from his self care to see Robin staring at the two of them. Steve sighed and dreaded the thought that he had to expose his most embarrassing secret to another person. 

“What?” Billy hissed. “You’ve never seen a man have lip gloss?” 

Steve stared in awe as Billy took the blame for the lip gloss. 

Robin held her hands up in defense. “No, I just think it’s funny.” 

“Taking care of yourself isn’t funny, Robin.” Billy took the tube away from Steve. “You know you would do some good if you took care of yourself every once in a while. Maybe try some eye cream, your eye bags are showing.” Billy shoved past Robin to his car. 

The two friends were standing still in shock, their jaws touching the floor because holy fuck, Billy Hargrove did not just take the blame for Steve’s feminine ways. 

“Hey assholes!” Billy yelled from his car. “Let’s get on with it! There’s a party down at Tommy’s! I wanna crash it!” 

Steve was well aware he was in love with Billy Hargrove, and he was well aware Billy Hargrove was in love with him. But holy shit, did Steve now know that they were in love. Because what other manly guy would pretend to know all about self-care to protect his boyfriend’s self-esteem? 

He barked out a laugh at Robin before jogging away to Billy’s car. Robin soon followed with a defeated look in her eyes.

[a-most-beloved-fool]

For the ask prompt game...

Spirk #17 to distract

"Report," Kirk ordered. The word buzzed low against Spock's ear, quiet and audibly tense.

"Less than two minutes until they reach our location, Captain," Spock replied promptly. "Commander Scott will need at least another eight before the transporter is operable again." His voice was equally hush, despite their perceived solitude. He had seen carelessness take far too many lives during his time in Starfleet; he would not allow it to take his captain as well - and, illogically, Spock could not quite dispense of the phantom sensation of eyes on the back of his neck.

"We'll need to bluff it," Kirk decided, looking grim.

His gaze was strangely intense against Spock, full of rioting emotion, and, almost, Spock wished to look away. He did not. Instead, he nodded, holding steady eye contact.

The odds, Spock knew, that Kirk's gambit - whatever it may be - would succeed were... poor. The guards had, after all, seen their faces. But Kirk would keep fighting right until the bitter end, and Spock, of course, would be right beside him.

Solemn, he vowed, "I shall follow your lead," though he knew Kirk would not have doubted it. Still, the unnecessary words were well worth the way the tension around Kirk's eyes melted away, the somber set of his mouth slipping instead into a golden-edged smile.

Almost wonderingly, a soft chuckle fell from those lips, incongruous in their surroundings and entirely treasured. "What would I do without you?" Kirk asked, reaching up to exert gentle pressure on Spock's bicep.

I pray you never need find out, Spock made to say, getting only so far as drawing in breath before the sound of distant footsteps drew them both from their quiet moment, snuffing the words before they could take shape. "Eighteen seconds," he said instead, after rapidly adjusting his calculations. Faster than anticipated.

Kirk nodded, some unreadable emotion hiding in the soft crease between his brows.

"Forgive me, Mr. Spock," Kirk said softly, and Spock did not have time to question what he meant before Kirk was pulling him down by his shirt, dragging their lips together with great urgency.

Quite suddenly, Spock found that his mind was entirely blank. Strange heat flickered through his whole form, and his universe narrowed to only Kirk, all soft and human-warm, who was pressed flush to his chest and kissing him.

One, then two seconds stuttered by in which Spock thought no thoughts at all, struck utterly motionless in the face of such unexpected attentions. He only felt, swept away by the sensation of pliant lips against his own and warm fingers stroking through his hair, gently mussing.

The very first thought to break to the surface was simply, Jim. A wave of emotion flooded in with it, astonishment and affection sweeping over him in such quantities that he felt nearly lightheaded.

The second was, We will be caught, and Spock jolted as something near to panic rose up inside his gullet, urging him to take Jim into his arms and run.

The third, however, was not his own; it was pressed into his katra from the outside by Jim's careful fingers, his clever mind slipping easily past Spock's shields. Play along, he said, projecting deliberate calm through their connection. Still, Jim was unpracticed in telepathic arts, and beneath that false serenity Spock could feel a tangle of guilt and determination, bitter and writhing.

The truth came to Spock in one fell swoop.

Jim's gambit... was this.

His lips and his hands, which pressed themselves so tenderly to Spock's skin, were not for him.

It was not love which had drawn his captain into his arms, but mere utility. Jim had realized what Spock had not: though they could not hide themselves, they could, perhaps, distract from themselves.

Two men attempting to look inconspicuous would only draw suspicion. Two men locked in a romantic embrace, however, may be overlooked - or even deliberately ignored. Few were comfortable with looking closely at the private passions of strangers, and fewer still would see reason to. Those searching for them, Spock hoped, would not. There would be no logic in halting an escape attempt solely for a kiss, after all.

Therefore, in order to escape unnoticed, they must be convincing.

They must seem, to any observers, to be completely and entirely immersed in one another, with no care for anything going on in their surroundings, and no fear of discovery.

Two lives, purchased with a kiss.

It was entirely logical, then, for Spock to part his lips, inviting Jim's tongue to dip inside of the wet cave of his mouth and meeting it with his own. If a groan rumbled deep within his chest, it could surely only help their cause; there was no need to swallow it down.

This disguise would, Spock observed as Jim's tongue flicked gently at his mouth, be far easier to maintain than it had any right to be.

It was a terribly simple matter for a man in love to behave as though he were a man in love.

The difficult part, then, would be remembering that it was a ruse. Already, heat bubbled deep within Spock, aching want suffusing his every neuron. Every faint brush of flesh sent golden tendrils of telepathic energy sparking across his skin, and it was all Spock could manage to hold himself back from pressing hungry fingers to Jim's meldpoints and sinking into that wonderfully enticing mind.

Instead, Spock slipped a hand beneath the hem of Jim's shirt, rucking up the cloth until he was tracing patterns across a smooth expanse of golden skin. He flexed his hand, allowing his nails to scratch carefully along Jim's spine, and did not permit himself to consider reaching upwards, to Jim's face - or worse: downwards, beyond the waistband of his pants.

He wondered if Jim would have chosen this, had he known how very much Spock wanted.

Perhaps it was selfish of Spock to allow it.

Still, he could not force himself away - not when Jim's life was at stake. The kiss was his lifeline, and so the kiss must remain.

The touch of their minds, however, did nothing to aid Jim. It was solely for Spock's benefit, taken from Jim without his knowledge or intent.

That, Spock could end.

If Jim was to unknowingly place himself into the hands of someone who wanted more than he would wish to give, then Spock would take it upon himself to be his protector - even if the one he must protect against was himself.

And so, Spock opened himself to every offered touch, and girded his mind against every stray thought, until not a single wisp of golden energy could find its way past his defenses.

When Jim's thigh nudged its way between Spock's legs, Spock spread his stance wider, allowing him to press closer, and did not let himself feel. His hands grasped and squeezed at the soft flesh beneath them, drawing quiet gasps from a pink-flushed throat, and no pleasant hum buzzed against his fingertips, carrying with it the flavor of human emotion. Jim nipped at his lips and pet at his hair, and Spock pressed every scrap of yearning deep down within himself to where they couldn't emerge.

Eyes closed and spirit aching, Spock kissed him.

_____________

from this ask game

[heylittleriotact]

𝐢 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟖

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐀𝐔

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐬? 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬.

Read below or on ao3

It was very possibly the best Wintersend she’d ever had.

She slept in late while Emmrich rose early (as always) and did whatever it was that he did in those ungodly pre-dawn hours - yoga or something.

He brought her a cup of coffee in bed around 10:30, gave her a kiss, and left her to take her time waking up amongst the puffy duvet and pristine sheets, leisurely enjoying her caffeine and scrolling through her phone: he had figured out quickly that Rook was not a morning person, and rather than trying to make her into one, he simply accommodated her preference and made her mornings as enjoyable as he humanly could when time allowed.

When his on-call hours ended at noon, they had a shower together in Emmrich’s cavernous natural slate-walled shower that was reminiscent of a steamy hot springs cave: she treated him to a nice sloppy ‘Happy Wintersend’ blowjob, and he'd laid her on her back on the shower floor and licked her cunt until she was no longer confident in her ability to stand. 

The afternoon was spent outdoors, strolling down the serene pathways along the Minanter, only a few blocks away from Emmrich’s house. They took in the crisp winter air, and the bright blue sky, the sun warming their skin when it passed through the shimmering hoar-frost glazed boughs above them; cheeks and noses rosy from the cold.

It felt good to be out and about amongst the rest of the people enjoying the mild weather on the holiday - she and Emmrich had been so committed to keeping their relationship discreet for that first little bit that they didn’t venture out in public together too often for fear of being spotted by a coworker. But now that everything was out in the open, she felt like any of the other couples wandering the shores of the river, hand in hand with their partner, smiling, laughing… it was the most boring, normal - dare she say... grown up - state of being she’d ever experienced, and she clung to every second of it.

“Take me out for dinner soon?” She asked while they stood on the pathway and watched a swarm of little kids playing ice hockey on the gleaming ice that had frozen the vast river, halting its meandering flow until spring would warm it again.

He draped his arm around her shoulder and bundled her close, sharing his heat with her.

“I had been planning on it,” he confided, a gleeful smile on his face: smitten, his rich hazel eyes gleaming in the sunshine - he looked downright giddy: if this was love, he wore it well.

She wondered if she looked the same.

They ventured home as the sun began to set on the shortest day of the year, and indulged in a measure of fine oak-aged whiskey to ward away the lingering remnants of their time outdoors.

Even the obnoxious text message she received from a random number didn’t dampen her spirits.

‘Happy Wintersend u sloppy whore … bet ur spending it with old balls sugar daddy huh? Have fun with ur daddy issues’

And then a selfie of Tommy, clearly shirtless in bed with a girl with blue hair who couldn’t have been older than nineteen - also shirtless - and with pupils so blown out by something her irises were nearly black.

Rook was feeling so cheerful and festive she even decided to grace Tommy with a rare reply for a change:

‘Happy Wintersend Tommy - try not to catch anything incurable - she looks a bit sketchy 😘’

‘Bitch’

And then she blocked him.

The hours ticked away filled with delicious drinks, festive music, and a sumptuous cheese fondue shared at the table in the breakfast nook. Emmrich had wanted to set the sprawling ebony dining room table for their dinner in light of the holiday, but Rook insisted on the smaller one: it was more intimate - simpler… the way she liked it.  

The name of the game on Wintersend was killing time with your loved ones until midnight, or more precisely - the middle of the longest night of the year. The darkest hour. The blackest day. On the other side of that twelfth chime was change: the infinitesimal tilt in the planetary axis towards a day that would not be so dark, and a sunrise that would appear only a few seconds earlier than the last, over and over again until the pendulum swung the other way and there was more light than darkness.  

A cyclical reminder - held dear by Nevarrans - that harkened to their deeply rooted appreciation for the order of things: life and death; the changing of the seasons; and the sanctity of those Great Mysteries beyond their knowledge or control.

The stroke of midnight also meant gifts: it was considered bad luck to exchange them any earlier in the day.

Try telling that to a five-year-old who’d spent the entire day getting utterly wired on sugar and anticipation - Rook remembered being small and chomping at the bit before she could even tell time.  

“Soon?” She’d ask her Dad from her cross-legged vigil in front of the digital clock on the VHS player in their living room.

“You asked me that thirty-seconds ago,” he had laughed. “The number hasn’t even changed: it’s still 10:21!”

Things were quite a bit different for a twenty-five year-old who was desperately in love and well into the third bottle of wine that had been opened and shared that night.

She was oblivious to the elegant clock on the wall behind her that read 12:07 as she straddled the skinny hips of the man who’d opened and poured the wine, making out with him like their lives depended on it, their most recent hand of Wicked Grace forgotten on the table behind her.

Emmrich was fucking garbage at cards.

The least she could do to take the sting away from his fourth consecutive loss was give him a kiss - seeing he was so graceful in defeat… and everything else.

She whined against his lips, both her hands woven in his hair, kissing him ardently as he clutched the table with one hand to keep the chair they both occupied from tipping backwards due to her enthusiasm.

He just looked so sad...

How could she not plant herself on his lap and lick the frown off his face?

She coaxed a muffled and rather surprised grunt from him when she rolled her hips against his. His fingers tightened on her ass and he flinched slightly, jolting the table and causing the Bordeaux in their glasses to sway.

He seemed to summon the willpower required to pull away from her at last, and looked up at her, head tipped back enough that his lips were out of her reach.

“Don't you want to open your gift, my dear?”

When he looked at her like that - down his nose with half-lidded eyes… a bit smarmy… no. No she didn’t give a fuck about gifts...

“This gift?” She purred, hand resting over his semi-hard cock.

His head tipped forward, and a few strands of hair that Rook had disheveled slipped over his brow. “As deeply flattering as it is to know that I’m all you wanted for Wintersend, I did think to buy you something that falls outside the realms of wanton carnality.”

“Shame - I was gonna give you sex for Wintersend: a hard, sloppy fuckin’.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head. He pinched her side and her foot jerked up so hard it hit the bottom of the table. “Ah! Fuck! Asshole.”

Emmrich reached past her to steady a wobbling wine glass. “Careful, darling. Wouldn’t want to make a mess, now would we?”

“‘Wouldn’t want to make a mess’,” Rook parroted, doing a ridiculous imitation of Emmrich’s, letting out a clipped yelp when he dug his fingers into her side again, taking full advantage of the exact spot he knew was ticklish.

“Keep that up and I’m not giving you your present at all!” She snarked.

“Ohhhh - so you did get me a gift?” Teeth flashing, he went to tickle her again and she batted his hands away.

“Well… I got one for Manfred. He’s been such a good boy, you see.”

His hand stilled. “Did you really?” 

“Of course I did. Can you imagine being subjected to those sad green eyes while he longingly watches us open our gifts? I can be bitchy, but I’m not mean.”

“Rook…” a sappy smile pulled at his lips. “That’s incredibly heartfelt of you. You didn’t have to.” 

“Don’t thank me till you see what it is."

"Oh dear..."

"Don't worry - it's nothing too dangerous." She slid off his lap and straightened, grooming some of his hair back into place simply to enjoy the softness of it again. "I'll go get it... and I suppose the thing I got for you too..."

He pinched her ass as she retreated - not hard enough to hurt, but with enough pressure to send a jolt of exhilarating sensation up her spine.

She returned moments later from the spare bedroom she had stashed the gifts in upon her arrival, balancing a small box about the size of a hardcover novel atop a much larger package. Both were wrapped with pretty metallic blue paper.  

Emmrich waited for her on the couch, their wine glasses on the coffee table, no gift apparent at first glance - Rook swallowed: she’d jokingly told him she wanted a car for Wintersend.

What if he actually got me a fucking car?

“The big one is Manfred’s,” she set the boxes down. “It’s actually two gifts if you factor in the box, which I’m sure he’ll love.”

There was no doubt in her mind that Manfred’s gift would go over well: the cat was already up on the table, sniffing curiously at the intriguing new items.

Emmrich’s though? Oh she hoped he liked it…

She dropped onto the couch next to Emmrich and he wrapped an arm around her, kissing the top of her head.

“He does have a fondness for cardboard boxes, but he’ll have to exercise patience for a few more minutes…” he produced a package wrapped in elegant black and gold paper and handed it to Rook: it was light, and about the size of a shoebox.

Not a car, then. Oh well.

“Ooooh, for me?” Rook grinned, sitting up straight and surveying the handsomely concealed gift: there was a small envelope tucked into the shiny gold ribbon encircling the box - she had no doubt that Emmrich had wrapped it himself: not a line was out of place or sloppy; not a single wrinkle existed on the paper.

“Indeed,” he crooned.

She could tell he was excited: he loved giving her things; buying her things; spending absurd amounts of money on her. They may have only dated for a month, but it was as if showering her with love wasn’t enough for Emmrich - he had to shower her with gifts at every opportunity too.

Rook pulled the envelope free, flipping it open and pulling out the petite greeting card within that bore a stylized golden embossing of the phases of the moon, eyes sweeping over Emmrich’s familiar and somewhat eccentric penmanship.

My Dearest Rook,

Endless love and good wishes to you on Wintersend. It may be the darkest night of the year, but nothing feels truly dark when you are with me.

May there be many more such nights in the presence of your wonderful company: so long as they are spent with you, I would find myself perfectly content if the sun never rose again.

Ever yours in love and affection,

Emmrich

Oh. It was the most romantic card she’d ever received. So sweet… so thoughtful…

Ever yours…

“This is beautiful,” she said, reading it over again, index finger trailing down the length of the card and the words written there, smiling. “I’ll keep it forever...”

“Forever?” Emmrich chuckled, looking pleased despite whatever he found humorous in her declaration. “It’s only a card, darling, and I—”

“Yeah but it’s from you, and I love it. I love you.” She turned and kissed him so he wouldn’t see her wet eyes - she didn’t know why the simple Wintersend card affected her so deeply, but her heart was full to bursting regardless of reasoning.

“I love you too.” He plucked the card and envelope from her fingers, setting them on the table as her cue to continue opening the gift.

She began tearing the paper away, and angled the box towards Manfred when she felt his weight on the cushion next to her, his front paw pressing into her thigh as he leaned in to take a closer look, pink nose twitching.

“Here buddy…” she lifted a flap of paper with her finger and waved it. “Wanna help?”

Manfred hissed softly in answer and caught the flap of paper with his paw, claws snagging it as Rook moved her finger out of the way just in time.

“There you go,” she encouraged, watching patiently as he batted and nipped at the torn section of paper, tongue and teeth lashing at his intended prey. “Yeah you’ve got it.”

He savaged the wrapping paper enthusiastically, and between the two of them they freed the gift from its concealment.

It was a shoebox, but not a recycled one: this one was black and brand new, free of any labels or branding. Where Emmrich had even thought to find such a thing was a mystery to her.

“Good job, Manfred,” she scratched between his ears and down his sleek back. “I think I’ve got it from here.”

Sometimes she wondered if he actually understood words, because when she said that, he immediately sat back on his haunches next to her and ceased his involvement with the proceedings, merely observing now instead, green eyes tracking every movement of her hands.

She flipped the lid open, noting Emmrich’s silence as she lifted a neatly folded piece of shimmery tissue paper to reveal—

A pair of ducky slippers: plush, and yellow, and adorable.

The exact same ones she was horrified to realize she was wearing the night she impulsively invited him to her apartment.

“The hardwood and tile can be cold—” Emmrich was explaining. “—I thought these would keep your feet warm and comfortable when you’re here, and the first time I saw you wearing them I thought they were rather cute, you see, but if you would prefer something different—”

“No, no— they’re perfect, and I love them.”

Rook wasn’t focused on the ducky slippers, but rather the cube-shaped black velvet box that was nestled inside the opening of the left duck.

The cube-shaped black velvet box that was clearly the sort unique to jewelers.

“What’s this?” She inquired, reaching for the box.

“I suppose you’ll just have to open it.”

The remnants of the wrapping paper floated to the floor and Manfred followed, pouncing on it.

Opening the lid of the box, Rook’s breath caught, for resting within was a gold ring with the biggest (and only) emerald she’d ever seen set into the band, flanked by two clearly genuine diamonds on either side.

“Holy shit,” she breathed.

“It’s… it’s not— I’m not asking you to—” Emmrich's eyes rounded as he only just then seemed to comprehend the potential implication of giving a woman a ring on Wintersend. “I’m not proposing—”

“Yeah,” Rook laughed breathlessly, eyes still fixed on the gentle green stone the size of her pinky nail. She’d seen ‘emeralds’ before - costume jewelry. None looked like this one: pale, opaque… the same shade of green as Manfred’s otherworldly eyes. “No, no, no - of course. I know that. I just… holy shit.”

“Do you like it?” He ventured, seeming unsure of himself for the first time since she started opening the gift. “It’s considered imperfect - I could have commissioned a flawless one, but this gem in particular called to me when my jeweler presented it to me and—”

“You had this custom made?!” Rook’s head snapped sideways, her eyes widening further.

He looked somewhat bashful at this and said, “Er… uh… yes. I happen to be a long-standing patron of a well-renowned jeweler in the city, but that’s of little importance, dear: all that matters is that you’re pleased with it.”

“Of course I’m pleased with it,” Rook exhaled and pulled the ring from the lining of the box. “This is… I… wow.”

Words actually failed her: it didn’t happen often, but this was one of the few times in her life where she found herself vacant of any witticisms or quips.

“May I?” His long fingers moved towards the ring and Rook nodded.

He took the ring from her and delicately cradled her right hand in his left, spreading her fingers and slipping the beautiful piece onto her ring finger, his confidence in the motion giving away his sureness of the fit - how he’d managed to figure out her ring size without her knowledge was yet another mystery.

“Maker, Emmrich…” Rook held her hand out and admired the elegant ring on her finger: she was used to cheap bendy things that turned your finger green and broke when you looked at them the wrong way: dull, lifeless metal that took up space but didn’t sparkle: this sparkled. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, darling.” His hand found hers again and the pad of his thumb stroked over the gem, appraising it. "Happy Wintersend."

"You're so good to me," Rook said, resting her head on his shoulder. "How did I get so lucky?"

"You? I think it is I who is the lucky one: baubles and gold only take one so far - but there is an authenticity to you, Rook, that is beyond compare."

"If you're angling to get laid, it's certainly working..."

“I hope you don’t feel that you owe me… things…"

“No, I don’t - but I also don’t hear you complaining about all the blowjobs, either.” She leaned forward to grab the box for Emmrich from the coffee table: there was no way that she could drop the same amount of cash on him as he did on her - and he'd never expect her to - but even so, she felt her paltry gift was a bit... underwhelming in comparison. "Here - Happy Wintersend, handsome."

She watched as he unwrapped the package, taking care not to rip or tear the paper - likely so it could be repurposed another time. His long, elegant fingers lifted away the lid of the box.

“Ahhh… it appears that we inadvertently stumbled upon a theme...”

They had, in fact: she had no reason to suspect that Emmrich was going to buy her a pair of ducky slippers in jest when she had selected the pair of sky blue dress socks covered with yellow rubber duckies and a larger, central rubber ducky wearing sunglasses, the words ‘Duck Around & Find Out’ floating cheerily above its head.

They were stupid. They were ridiculous. Emmrich would never, ever wear them - that is… unless she had been the one to buy them for him.

He might only wear them a handful of times in the year - but he’d don them alright, knowing full well that Rook had paid money for them and bequeathed the novelty socks unto him. He would feel bad if he didn’t.

“They’re errr…” he began, searching for something appropriately gracious to say - an act which was worth the price of the socks alone.

“Adorable? Yes, I know. That’s why I got them for you. But inside the ridiculous novelty socks reside the true gifts, I swear.”

He picked up the socks - felt the weight of the similarly shaped objects in each foot. “Right or left first?” He queried, looking to Rook for direction.

“Mmmm… fuck it: left.”

He reached inside the sock and withdrew a metal tin roughly the size of a bar of soap.

“What have we here?”

“I suppose you’ll just have to open it,” she teased, repurposing his words from earlier.

He popped the lid and inhaled deeply, taking in the intense floral aroma that burst into the air around him with notes of jasmine, rose, and neroli.

“Only half of the gift, I’m afraid,” she quipped. “You do so much for me without even knowing it sometimes, I think… I wanna get you back just as good: I’m going to give you an incredible head-to-toe massage with this decidedly sensual massage bar.”

“Your beautiful hands coated in fragrant oils, wandering all over my skin? Darling… so intimate..."

She could have sworn his ears reddened a little as he brought the massage bar up to his nose again.

“Open the other sock.”

Eyebrow raised, he replaced the lid on the tin holding the massage bar and set it down. He reached in once more, eyes widening when they landed on the object he withdrew.

“Rook!” He gasped, rotating the clear plastic case in his hand so he could make out the J card. “Oh, you shouldn’t have…”

“Leon literally gave me the blank tape for free - so don't worry, I didn’t break the bank.”

It was a joke, but there was a self-deprecating bitterness that veiled itself within the casually delivered words: she’d racked her brain for weeks trying to come up with a fitting gift for Emmrich, becoming increasingly frustrated when she kept drawing a blank: what could she possibly give to a man who clearly wanted for nothing? A Timex was within her budget, and she was sure that Emmrich - in all of his good grace and manners - would wear the cheap watch with pride… and it would serve as an ever-present reminder to Rook that the best she could do for the man who made no secret of how much he adored her was a budget time-piece with brass hands and a fake leather strap...

No - she couldn’t bear that kind of subtle and ever-present humiliation, regardless of how much Emmrich would ardently declare that her gift was the finest he’d ever received simply because it was from her.

A different tactic was required: material goods were a realm that Rook was never going to be able to match Emmrich in, so sentimentality was the name of the game - and it appeared she had struck a chord judging by the way her sensitive lover’s eyes misted over as he studied the hand-written track listing.

“Rook... this must have taken you hours to make...”

“Hopefully it was time well spent - do you like it? They’re all songs that uh… remind me of you, or us. It’s kinda sappy but—”

“Sappy suits me perfectly well, darling, and the fact that there exists a single song that reminds you of us let alone—” his eyes skimmed the track-listing scratched on the insert with blue ballpoint pen. “—twenty-five, well... that’s possibly the most marvelous declaration of affection a man could ever wish for.”

“Oh come on - you don’t need to lay it on so thick…” Rook smirked bashfully. “It was actually pretty hard to narrow it down to twenty-five, but there’s only so many minutes of tape: I could probably make about four more of these, honestly.”

“Who’s laying it on thick now?” He teased before pulling her tight against him and kissing her deeply - slowly, and tenderly… the way she liked best, because she could feel every ounce of his love imparted in the feeling of his lips against hers.

“I didn’t get you a card…” she murmured when they parted.

“I don’t need a card to know how you feel about me, darling.” He raised the cassette tape that was still in his hand. “I daresay this says more than any greeting card ever could. It puts my humble sentiments to shame without a doubt.”

“I hope you like the songs. You know some of them, but some are uh… newer.”

“You don’t need to sell me on it, dear: I’m already sold. I can’t wait to listen to it - of course, you’ll listen to it with me for the first time, yes?”

“I should hope so,” she couldn’t help but laugh despite the doubt that still lingered in her mind - the pervasive notion that he was only saying all of this for her benefit while he inwardly cringed at the fact that his girlfriend could only find it within herself to buy him a six-dollar massage bar, and a pair of novelty socks... topped off with a slapped together mixtape of music he was probably going to fucking hate...

He pulled her legs up over his lap and stroked her shoulder as if he could sense her apprehension.

“You don’t need to buy me expensive things, Rook,” he said softly, gazing into her eyes. “My heart doesn’t yearn for finery and luxurious possessions - it yearns for you… for your affection and your love. With the knowledge that there is a place in your heart for me, I consider myself to be the richest man who’s ever lived.”

That helped. That helped a lot, because there was absolutely no doubt in her mind that he meant it.

“In that case, shall we move onto the next part of your gift?”

Emmrich raised an eyebrow and looked at the large box still sitting on the table. “I thought this one was for Manfred?”

“There may be an ulterior motive involved...” she admitted, coaxing Manfred onto the table. “Shall we let him open it?”

Together, they helped Manfred strip away the wrapping paper covering the large cardboard box that was taped shut. Rook used her fingernail to pop the tape free and opened the flaps so Manfred could stand on his hind paws and peer into the box, tail swishing through the air, brow furrowed with determination to get to the bottom of this mysterious object.

“What is it, Manfred?” Rook prompted, pushing some of the tissue paper inside of the box out of the way.

Manfred gracefully spilled into the box, landing on the paper, which crinkled and rustled as he pawed around, burying his face into it.

“Ooooh… what’s this?” Her fingers wrapped around something and she pulled up, freeing it from the paper with a theatrical gasp that Emmrich echoed. “Could it be? Is it your very own backpack?”

“I think it is!” Emmrich beamed, and Manfred let out a rather haunting trill of joy, his pink tongue dangling out of his mouth as his pupils expanded. “This was very thoughtful of Rook, wasn’t it, Manfred?” He reached into the box and pulled the backpack out fully, dodging Manfred’s claws before he leapt out of the box onto the table. “You’ll say ‘thank you’ of course, won’t you? It’s good manners when someone takes the time to give us a gift because it means we are acknowledging the effort and care that they put into doing such a thing.”

Manfred - if he was listening - was scrambling into Emmrich’s lap as he was tugging at the zippers of the main compartment to grant the feline entrance.

Chattering, purring loudly, and uttering soft hisses, Manfred stuck his head into the bag that Emmrich had laid across his lap, white tail wrapping around his wrist as he explored the inside (which Rook had cunningly dusted with catnip).

“I think he likes it,” Rook observed as Manfred disappeared completely into the bag for a moment before his little white head reemerged from the opening. “And now he won’t have to commandeer mine whenever I forget to put it in a closet.”

Emmrich chuckled, then properly laughed, setting the bag upright in his lap to regard his green-eyed companion staring back at him from within.

It was nothing special - just a brown, faux leather backpack she’d found online. It cost more than all of Emmrich’s gifts combined, but it had to at least kind of match his fancy leather collar, and even still it was only thirty-five bucks.

Worth it, she decided. Entirely worth it for the sheer joy on Emmrich’s face as Manfred’s little chin tipped up proudly as if to say, ‘This is my backpack, isn’t it lovely? It’s mine and not yours.’

"This is a great surprise - for both of us." He stroked Manfred's head and looked to Rook. "I never would have anticipated that you'd think to spoil Manfred like this."

"Why not? He needs to be spoiled - look at him."

Manfred's head swiveled towards her and he hissed.

"See? He's thrilled," Rook laughed.

"As sweet as it is, I'm still trying to pinpoint the ulterior motive you mentioned..."

"Oh! Right: see, ideally, Manfred here will be so enamoured with his new backpack that I'll be able to steal you away and give you that massage we were talking about while wearing nothing but the gold you've so kindly seen fit to give me." She grinned at him, feeling quite proud of herself as she watched the mental image manifest in Emmrich's mind, knowing that it had hit home when he swallowed hard and went a bit pink.

"You really put a lot of thought into this, didn't you darling?" He whispered.

"I'm so glad you noticed. Now leave the cat to his bag and let's go upstairs, shall we? I wanna make you melt."

And she would - she wasn't able to buy him a cashmere sweater or an expensive watch, but Rook Ingellvar was going to give one last gift to Emmrich this Wintersend: he was going to wake up the next morning without a single doubt in his mind about how utterly fucking treasured he was.

They both showered again, and as Emmrich did as he was told and got comfortable on the bed in anticipation of his massage, Rook, spurred on by the wine, decided to try out the intimidating bidet at last, which she was surprised to find was quiet refreshing, if a bit bracing initially - she could see the appeal though, she supposed: on top of the shower, she'd never felt quite so... clean downstairs.

She climbed onto the bed where Emmrich was stretched out on his belly. His eyes followed her naked form as she approached, and lust tempered with adoration dwelled in those hazel depths, marking the ruby necklace on her neck and the glinting emerald on her finger. As she straddled his bare thighs, she noted that he had chosen to keep his own gold on as well, his long fingers still adorned with his many rings - some simple, others downright ostentatious. His gold watch lingered on his left wrist, just visible from where his arms were folded under his head, along with the variety of other thin chains and bracelets that lined his forearms.

“I rather enjoy the sight of you in nothing but gold,” he murmured blissfully into his arm. “It suits you… emphasizes your beauty and calls to mind tales of forgotten goddesses and the benevolent love that they might see fit to bequeath unto unworthy mortal men.”

"You just like seeing your girlfriend naked."  

"There's that too..." he admitted.

"Mhmmm..." Rook hummed, popping the lid of the tin containing the massage bar and settling into the comforting sensation of the backs of his thighs against hers. "Now shush - just relax and let me spoil you for fucking once."

"You spoil me every day, darling."

"Shhhh," she warned squeezing her legs together - he chuckled in answer, and she leaned forward to trail a line of kisses down his neck from the closely cropped line of his hair. "Let me love you, Emmrich... let me adore you."

Heeding her command, he exhaled deeply - a sound of pure contentment, and Rook began working the massage bar against his skin, feeling it begin to melt from the combined heat of her hand and his flesh.

She worked diligently, focused on her task - she was no masseuse, but one didn’t need to be in such a circumstance: this was about intimacy and closeness between two people as she mapped the network of muscles, bone, and connective tissue that dwelled beneath Emmrich’s pale skin.

“I like your trapezius,” she whispered, working the fingers of her other hand into the sheath of muscle between his neck and his collarbone, kneading and squeezing, the oil of the massage bar making her movements smooth and frictionless.

“Oh—!” Emmrich gasped when her fingers found a knot and she began loosening it. “So complimentary, darling—” he drew in a breath through clenched teeth at the feeling of the knot beginning to give way. “T-thank you...”

Her fingers danced over his ribs next, counting each of them in her mind - true, then floating - so easy to discern under his skin as they protruded visibly in this prone stretched out position. She continued quietly naming various muscles and points of anatomy as she spread the sweet, fragrant massage oil into his skin, and Emmrich was silent but for happy, satisfied sighs, hums - and the occasional correction of her pronunciation: he was familiar with the finer points of anatomy, after all.

She set the massage bar down, and her thumbs drifted down his lower back on either side of his spine, and she drew them apart, sweeping over the space just above the curve of his rear.

“Gluteus medius…” she recited, the tips of her thumbs sinking into the thicker layer of muscle and fat - what little he had at least - pressing firm, small circles into the area before moving on to the more robust muscles a few inches lower. “Gluteus maximus…” she pressed the heels of her palms into his cheeks, grinding them upwards in a wholly innocent demonstration of her very qualified abilities as a massage therapist.

Emmrich moaned quietly, slightly muffled by the positioning of his head on his forearm - whether it was intentional or not, Rook couldn’t say, but something about the blissful resignation of the sound inspired her.

She surveyed the small, horizontal wrinkles at the very apex of the backs of his thighs directly under his bum: she had always quite liked these little wrinkles that were less pronounced than the convex delineation on his cheeks: these were subtle and elegant. The thin strip of flesh between these small furrows and the underside of his ass looked sensitive and silky - softer still than the rest of him.

They called to Rook: to be stroked and licked and kissed…

Slowly, she followed the shape of the lines with her thumbs. “Gluteal sulcus…”

Emmrich shivered at her feather light touch, and a high-pitched little whimper warbled past his lips.

“Does that feel nice?” She inquired silkenly, slipping further down his legs and continuing to gently drag her thumbs back and forth over the enticing flesh.

“Mmmm… yes….” he sighed.

“Can I kiss you there?”

“Of course.” There was no hesitation in his voice - if anything there was an aspect of want in his tone.

Rook lowered herself further until her breasts were pressed against the backs of his legs, the sensitive peaks of her nipples hardening even more than they already were at the sensation of skin on skin.

Lips as gentle as the wings of a butterfly grazed the space just under the fleshy part of his ass, earning another delightful little whine. She chased the utterance, trailing small kisses along the crease, and palming his cheeks in her hands, unable to keep herself from deepening the pressure and intensity of each kiss, arousal flaring in her core.

She squeezed his ass, fingernails sinking into skin and wrenching an amusingly taken aback squeal out of him - he even squirmed a little. Was he as turned on as she was?

She wasn’t sure— so she nipped at that enticing gluteal sulcus, pinching until… a yelp that gave way to an undeniably suggestive moan…

Normally, she enjoyed letting him spoil her in bed like he spoiled her everywhere else, but the nude massage was meant to be for and about him… naturally anything else that came of it had to be too...

Of course there was also something deeply intriguing about the squirming and hushed, needy sounds she was coaxing out of him…

Mind made up, she stopped teasing the backs of his thighs and lifted her head so he would be sure to hear her.

“Can I lick your asshole?”

She’d never heard a sound before quite like the one he made then: it was what she supposed someone would sound like if they swallowed a kazoo and then immediately after were kicked squarely in the balls.

“R-Rook!” He spluttered. “Y-you want to—?”

“Lick your asshole, yes,” she asserted calmly, somehow managing to keep the laughter from her voice, but losing the battle with the smile that lifted the corners of her mouth. “Gotta ask, you know? Can’t just… dive in there.”

“Darling…” he breathed. “You don’t have to—”

“You say that every time I try to do something for you - don’t you get it? I don’t feel like I have to: I want to.” She planted a kiss on his ass cheek and grinned. “If you’d prefer a different perspective let's try this: it would really soak my panties if I could smooch your chocolate starfish.”

“Rook!” Reproach and scandal dripped from his voice despite the fact that was she certain that precum was also dripping from his dick, seeping into the blanket beneath him.

She kissed his rear again to stifle a giggle. “Let’s be honest - there’s no wholesome way to propose this. But - no pun intended—”

Emmrich groaned again, but not in an aroused way.

“— I said I was going to adore you, and I intend on adoring every inch of you.”

He was silent for a few moments and Rook was about to point out that if he left her hanging any longer it was going to get awkward.

“Go on then, darling,” he said, and she didn’t need to see his face to know it was brick red.

She peppered a few more kisses over his cheeks and the amusing bum wrinkles, kneading his flesh, and saying, “Just relax for me.”

When she was satisfied that he had - the tension of their brief back and forth dissipating from his frame - she gently spread his cheeks, emitting a pleased hum at the sight of the puckered ring of muscle hidden there.

“I should have guessed that you waxed based on the rest of your grooming standards, but I must admit my surprise…”

She could practically feel him blush harder as she heard the blankets rustle as he attempted to bury his face further into them.

“I have a standing appointment at a local salon,” came his muffled voice.

“Mmmmm… that’s very good to know,” Rook mused. “You have a very pretty asshole.”

“Rook…” he whined, and she couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or impatience.

“So pretty…” she mused, lowering her face and imparting a slow, firm lick against his sphincter: he melted with an uninhibited groan and whispered her name again. “Mmmm… how’s that, handsome?”

“Transcendent…” he panted, and she rewarded him with another long, wet stroke of her tongue, delighting in his reaction as he made another rich sound deep in his throat that gave away the authenticity of his pleasure.

Satisfied that he wasn’t just putting it on for her benefit, she repositioned her legs, urging him to spread his so that she could slot herself between them, granting her better access - not only to his asshole, but to his balls, and his cock that was pressed flat against the mattress - hard as a rock.

Laying flat between his legs, she drew the tip of her tongue in a lazy circle around the circumference of his hole, reaching up to fondle his soft heavy balls, and coating the valley between his cheeks with saliva, focused, but aware of Emmrich’s pitched breaths and the way he was grinding his hips into the bed.

She moved southwards, carefully sucking one of his balls into her mouth and gently working it with her tongue, tasting his musk and the faint remnants of the lemongrass scented soap they had cleaned themselves with.

Letting it fall from her mouth with a sloppy ‘pop’ she gave the other side of his sack equal treatment before returning her attentions to his back door, flexing her tongue and parting him for her so she could push beyond the taut sphincter and dip inside. He gasped, then babbled her name, and a few other unintelligible words between mewls and whimpers of various volumes while she thrust her tongue in and out of his hole, which relaxed further for her with each stroke.

She moaned, burying her face deeper between his cheeks - squeezing, gripping… massaging his ass as she ravished his asshole, his balls, and the shaft of his cock.

His arms were no longer folded under him: he gripped the sheets next to his head, fingers curling into the high thread count linens as she devoured his ass with stalwart conviction. His back arched, tailbone tipping upwards as he subconsciously sought to urge Rook’s tongue deeper and deeper inside of him.

Catering to his desperation, Rook grasped Emmrich’s hips and shifted his weight backwards onto his knees, rising onto her own and taking advantage of his exposure, pummeling him with her tongue and letting a thick bead of spit dribble down over his hole.

The next sound that came out of him was closer to a sob than a groan, and she spread the saliva around his opening with her index finger, observing with satisfaction the dark stain of precum on the comforter and the thread of it that stretched up to the tip of his dick like crystalline filament.

When the congenially polite man had held the door open for her on the day of her final interview, she had not envisioned that months later she would find herself in bed with him on Wintersend, tossing his salad to great effect.

“You’re stunning, Emmrich…” she whispered, thumb finding the valley of his spine and sliding her hand upwards to sweep over the smooth expanse of his back, “… beautiful. You know that, right?”

She could feel his thighs trembling beneath him - marked the hitch in his breath at her words.

“Such kindnesses have never equaled the weight of your voice speaking them…” he rasped, “Ohhh– Rook…”

Rook.

The way her name trailed off his lips, inflecting slightly higher in his register - adoration… praise… worship… validation - all communicated in that single hushed syllable...

“A shame…” she opined while she continued to drag her lips and tongue and teeth over as much of him as she could, rose oil and neroli overwhelming her senses. “You should be told such things often… you should be loved frequently… and well.”

The emphasis of the last word was driven home by the way she cradled his pendulous balls and his throbbing cock in her other hand, imparting a tender squeeze as her own clit ached for attention, inner inner thighs slick with evidence of her need. The emerald on her finger caught the dim light as her hand passed over his back again, and she felt the weight of her passionate burden - that need to imbibe and drown herself in all that Emmrich Volkarin was… and could ever be.

Fingertips traced the shape of his arched back and idly drifted around his wet entrance, urging yet another whine from him.

"Please..." He whispered, and Rook's index finger paused against the tight ring of muscle that was clearly the secret to blowing Emmrich's mind. "Please - don’t stop, darling."

She felt herself smile, then fondled the rim of his asshole again, imparting more pressure this time. "More?" She inquired innocently, dipping just the tip of her middle finger inside of him - a fleeting, brief instance of pleasure that was there and then gone... meant to tease.

"Yes!" He hissed through clenched teeth, though not from any place of frustration or reproach - oh no... this was the shattered utterance of a man who was teetering on the brink of a mind-melting orgasm: Rook felt terribly flattered, and if she had to get him there by tickling his prostate a little, she wasn’t going to back down.

“Lube?” She prompted, her suspicions of its whereabouts confirmed by the wave of his willowy hand towards the bedside table. Crawling past him to open the drawer, she couldn’t help but snicker at the sight before her - she’d somehow never taken it upon herself to help herself to this particular cranny, despite snooping through all the others - this was where the condoms lived… that was all she needed to know.

But this was so much more than condoms: it was every possible kind of condom on the market: ribbed, flavoured, studded, thin, latex-free, Magnum, and more - all neatly organized and set out in little interlocking trays with the labels facing up; small bottles of massage oils in peppermint, lavender, and rosemary, displayed with the same deliberate accessibility; two kinds of lube: water based, and petroleum based - each bottle plainly marked; a scented candle, wick pristine; a pack of smokes and a lighter nestled on top of a spotless ashtray that was clearly crystal; a sleeve of Listerine breath-strips; and an unopened box of Plan B.

If the universe had managed to arrange itself such that Emmrich had miraculously and randomly found himself in a scenario where he had successfully seduced Marie Kondo, she would have creamed at the sheer organizational prestige of his fuck-drawer alone.

“These Magnums are looking a bit dusty…”

“In the past I’ve liked to have a variety of options for my dates!” Emmrich blustered, sounding like a kicked pelican. “Inclusivity is one of my core values, Rook.”

“You’re cute.” Her fingers wrapped around the bottle of water based lube, and she slid the drawer shut, sitting back on her knees, and leaning in to make out with his asshole a little more. "How do you want me?" She raised and lowered an eyebrow suggestively and began pouring lube onto her fingertips, the coolness of the liquid on her skin a welcome bit of grounding at that moment.

"I like to see your eyes," Emmrich answered, shifting onto his back, his own eyes half-lidded as he reached up and caressed Rook from collarbone to navel, the simple yet intimate touch one that caused her to shudder and clench around nothing.

"Alright," she said, "But I'm not kissing you - you don't know where I've been."

"I know exactly where you've been– ah!" His breath hitched when Rook's fingers wandered back between his legs, and coated his hole with a generous amount of lube.

"Sorry–" she said apologetically, resting her other arm over his bent knee and urging him to open a little bit wider for her, stroking gentle, soothing patterns against the coarse hair on his thigh. "I know it's cold..."

Carefully, she circled his entrance and eased the tip of her finger inside. Between her ministrations with her tongue moments earlier, coupled with the lube, he was well prepared for her, sphincter going lax with the practiced ease of one who was not a neophyte in the realm of anal play.

"Is this okay?" She asked regardless of the ease with which she worked her finger inside of him, the way his head was tilting back, and blissful utterances dripping from his tongue: how many selfish, grasping, oafish lovers had she taken to bed? Those who had been so focused on their own pleasure that her comfort was little more than an afterthought...

Sex was supposed to be fun - for everyone involved. Now that was a core value Rook could get behind… on top of… inside...

Emmrich hummed, the sound resonating deep in his chest, the corners of his moustache curling upwards with his mouth at Rook’s intrusion. “Yes, darling… keep going…”

Happy to acquiesce, she pressed deeper into his heat; the velvet soft feeling of him enveloping her index finger was a sensation that was altogether arousing by its own merit. Making a pleased sound of her own, she continued until she could go no deeper, drawing her lower lip through her teeth as she took in the sight of his hard cock leaking glistening precum over his hairy lower belly, and the flush of his normally pale cheeks. She moved the finger that was inside of him, feeling his responsiveness to her touch as his asshole clenched around her and another sinful whimper drifted past his lips.

"Another?" She queried softly, maneuvering her wrist and crooking her finger upwards towards his belly-button: the leg she was gripping quivered, and he groaned decadently, confirming that she had found what she'd been looking for.

He moaned again as her finger glanced over that soft, fleshy space once more. Nodded... then whispered her name and stared at her with glassy eyes as if she was Andraste incarnate.

The second finger went in as easily as the first, and she felt the tug of the comforter beneath her when his toes curled into the surface of it as he became accustomed to her dainty fullness.

"Very nice..." she praised, slowly pumping her fingers in and out of him and reaching down to stroke his cock in tandem. "I think I have a new favourite pastime..." both fingers crooked upwards this time to massage his prostate. She swore quietly at the ragged gasp she earned from Emmrich, entranced and wholly besotted by the way he melted for her... because of her. "Are you enjoying this as much as me, handsome?"

“I—! Maker—! Rook… y-yes!” He managed between soft cries and sumptuous moans, fingers twisting into the comforter, hips jerking seemingly of their own accord. Her hand left his cock and pinned his narrow hips to the bed, the lewd squelch of her lubed fingers filling the gaps between his attempts at cognizant speech. His eyes went wide, and he uttered one last wretched and unhinged cry before tightening around her so hard it nearly hurt. His cock twitched once… twice… then drooled pearly white cum all over his stomach, each steady gush accompanied by another wave of compression around her fingers as his thick spend dribbled over the crown of his cock.

She talked him through it - the way that he always did for her: sweet, adoring, encouraging words that wouldn’t have been out of place in the prep room, iterating her love and joy and appreciation until he stopped shaking and his body went slack, his fingers loosely gripping her wrist. Then she made it her business to lick every drop of cum off of his skin, thoroughly… gratefully.

“Where are you going?” He rasped after her when she vanished from him, genuine worry apparent despite his breathless elation. He didn’t actually think she was leaving, did he? She had it in her mind to fucking marry him at this rate…

She looked over her shoulder at him reposed on the bed, twisted on his side to watch her: he was nude, flushed, sweat-slicked, and covered in drying remnants of cum and saliva, his silver hair sticking in every direction...

He was perfection.

“To get a wash cloth to finish cleaning you up with, of course.” She threw him a saucy wink. “And to borrow your Listerine so I can kiss you to sleep afterwards.”

She shimmied her shoulders playfully and continued on to the bathroom, high on love, more certain of one thing than anything else: she had found the love of her life.

Ever yours, he had said...

If you're curious about the contents of Rook's mixtape...

[gothamite-rambler]

Bruce telling Selina who Nightwing is after he revealed he was Batman

Many, many years ago…

Catwoman was working with a new hero in Blüdhaven named Nightwing. He had a handsome face, easy on the eyes, and knew Batman well. Seizing the moment, she decided to flirt with the new hero, unaware that he was the first Robin.

Catwoman (laying on a seductive voice): I let Batman have his time with me, but since he’s not here… how about you and I—

Nightwing (nervously backing away): I am not interested! I have no interest in dating anyone, especially not you!

Catwoman (leaning forward): Dating is pushing it. I was thinking—

Nightwing (shouting the first part): I’M A GOOD CHURCH BOY! I reject your wooing! My vow of celibacy is strong, and we’ve got to stop a bank robbery, or the mob, or whatever it is. After that we go our separate ways platonically!

Nightwing speed-walked away, then quickly spun around, walking backward.

Nightwing: Don’t look at my ass! I am not in the mood to be seen as a bakery and nothing else! I will hit you if you don't quit with your unwanted advances.

Catwoman (holding her hands up): Okay, okay, geez. You’re a sexy prude and since you're uncomfortable... I guess I can put a pause on my feminine charm until you’re ready.

Nightwing: Yep, yep, yep. Never happening. Walk in front of me.

Catwoman giggled, holding her tail as she walked forward. Nightwing silently dry-heaved, recalling the days when this woman used to give him hugs and girl scout cookies.

Nightwing (thinking): I gotta tell Bruce… when I feel like talking to him. She has no idea, and I don’t like that. I miss being treated like a kid, at least here. Adding this to the WTF moments of being a hero. Curse this body I was gifted!

... Present day ...

Bruce: Alright, you saw everything. What do you think?

Selina: The cave is nicer than I expected, being a cave and all. Why the dinosaur statue?

Bruce: I like dinosaurs and always wanted a statue. Got that from a heist. It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?

Bruce looked at the dinosaur statue with a genuinely happy smile, reminiscent of his younger years. Selina found herself thinking it was adorable, Bruce was always cute, even in his quirkiest moments.

Selina: Aww, that’s such a sweet and innocent answer. I wasn't expecting that.

She kissed Bruce on the cheek, making him smile.

Selina: And don’t worry, I’m not going to betray you or tell everyone who you are. I know you were worried about that, but my love and trust for you is surprisingly strong.

Bruce: I was honestly fearful of that happening. Especially because… Talia might’ve said you’d be vindictive enough to do such a thing.

Selina (suspicious): She said it differently, didn’t she?

Bruce: What she said I'd rather not repeat.

Alfred (saying it for him): She said “that feline whore would be the first to betray you because she has no moral compass.” She’s wrong, and upset that he chose you over her.

Selina: I figured as much. Her jealousy is kind of funny, considering it doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m usually civil with her and no offense, she’s just as prickly as a cactus.

Bruce (sincere smile): Did I look like I was about to be offended?

Selina laughed, easing the tension in the room, though Bruce was clearly anxious about the next secret he was about to share.

Selina: My point is, Brucie, I’ve been working on my more toxic traits over the years… but I’d never hurt you that way. And you told me this five years ago, I’m still here.

Bruce: That’s true.

Selina: And if I ever did stab you in the back, you’ve got enough info on me to do the same.

Bruce: I won’t do that. I… I love you too much. Even though I disagree with some of your ideas on handling crime, I want to see where this goes.

Selina: Hm, a few years ago I never thought I'd be with you and we'd be working together as a couple, crazy how time has flown by. We haven't aged poorly at all. Score!

Selina giggled, playfully placing a hand on Bruce’s chest. Bruce sighed, chuckling. Alfred stayed six feet away watching the two like it was one of his soap operas.

Bruce: This is going well so far. Which makes the next thing I’m about to tell you pretty stressful. You’ve always been flirtatious in your days as a villain.

Selina: My coquettish behavior is how I like to act, especially with attractive people. I’ve toned it down since then. You'll get the full package though.

Bruce (tense): Uh-huh. Selina, sit down.

Selina took a seat in the Batcomputer chair, crossing her legs and ready for whatever news Bruce had for her . With the Batcave out of the way all that was left were some clarifications on her main morals.

Alfred hummed as he walked past, pretending to dust random objects. Bruce shot him a glance, hoping he’d leave. Alfred shook his head and stayed, clearly intent on witnessing the scene.

Bruce: Alright, I guess Alfred is staying. Um… Kitty, no... nicknames don't work. This feels awkward enough as it is. Selina, your reaction to what I’m about to tell you will really determine whether you stay with me. Okay?

Selina: Whatever you have to say, I won’t freak out. Honestly, you’ve already shared some pretty outlandish stuff. I’m just excited to learn more. Relax, pookie, I can handle it.

Bruce nodded, then got up to retrieve a folding chair, returning and taking a seat in front of her. He found some humor in the fact that Selina had flirted with his son, unaware of who he truly was, and while he didn’t hold any ill will toward her or either of them, he didn’t want her to defend her actions or something worse.

Bruce: Okay. You know Tim is Robin, Barbara was Batgirl and is now Oracle, and you met Jason, who’s still Red Hood, or whatever. You got the basics.

He paused, staring at the rocky cave ceiling.

Bruce: Now, on to my first Robin. He was my oldest son, Dick. He created the entire identity. We got in an argument when he was in his junior year of high school and eventually I fired him. Some time later, he went on to become Nightwing.

Selina: (delayed shock, leaning forward with a confused smile) …What?

Bruce: He’s Nightwing. He created that hero persona himself. Got the name from Superman, ridiculous source, in my opinion, but I grew to like it. He designed both suits, the one with the deep V-neck and—

Selina (slowly realizing): A black and blue striped unitard.

Bruce: Yep. Robin first, then Nightwing. I’ve been keeping that secret for weeks. Dick told me to hold off on telling you. We agreed that this moment needed to be built up, and now that you’ve seen the cave, I thought I’d weave that into the conversation.

Alfred: After I told you to.

Bruce: You gave me a little nudge.

Alfred (sassy): A little?

Bruce and Alfred exchanged a glance, debating whether Bruce or Alfred was the one eager to reveal Nightwing’s true identity. Selina remained silent, blinking quietly, her expression neutral.

Selina: Sorry, can you repeat some of that? I could’ve sworn you said the first Robin, the little boy in the colorful leotard, you’re saying he is Nightwing? That just can’t be… he was like a teenager when I last saw him in the Robin get up.

Bruce: You didn’t say anything wrong. Nightwing started as my first Robin, then when he stopped being Robin after I fired him he became Nightwing. The Discowing was a sight for sore eyes when I first saw it, but very memorable. Right?

Selina: Mm-hm.

Bruce: Do you remember hugging him the first time you met? He was so happy that day, even when I arrested you.

She nodded, biting her lip to hold back her emotions.

Alfred: Dick wasn’t of legal drinking age or an adult when he moved to Blüdhaven and became Nightwing, protecting that area, right, Master Bruce?

Bruce: Yeah, he was college age, just graduated high school. I was in my twenties when I adopted him. Selina, you were around my age then.

Selina swallowed nervously.

Selina: Sorry to focus on this, but the kid I met in the kitchen earlier, he was your Robin from age eight to seventeen?

Bruce: Yep. He graduated early. He’s a smart kid.

Selina: And he became Nightwing around that time… I was done with high school nearly a decade ago, while he was… um, little... he was raised in the circus?

Bruce: Yep. May his parents rest in peace.

Her dread at being reminded of his orphan status made her face pale. She bit her bottom lip, processing this new information. This reaction seemed to ease Bruce’s nerves, he knew he had to be there for her, but honestly, it was almost funny. Alfred walked over with a teacup, passing it to Selina.

Alfred (giving a head up): It’s vodka.

Selina: Thanks.

She took a long sip, then looked at Bruce and Alfred, who exchanged a knowing smile. This made her down the entire cup then shook her head.

Bruce (calm and relaxed): He was going through a breakup and grief over losing Jason during those middle years of being Nightwing. He hated being treated like eye candy. I sided with him when random women treated him like a sex object, because I've always seen how he’s a skilled fighter and a smart guy. Just thought you should know that.

Selina nodded, lowering her cup. She related, she’d been dismissed for her skills, her looks, her reputation as Gotham’s top villain and anti-hero. She’d felt the need to prove herself, and while she’d found a good middle ground, she realized men went through similar struggles, especially someone like Nightwing.

This new understanding made her feel more guilt.

Bruce (leaning forward): You still with us Selina?

Selina hesitated, recalling the days she flirted with Nightwing, thinking he was just a guy working with Batman, unaware of his true identity. It was fun, confident behavior, but not when the person was a teenager. She’d only wanted to make Batman jealous.

Selina: I have to ask... did he ever have a substitute?

Bruce and Alfred: No.

Selina: That’s… that’s amazing. Such a hard worker! So he’s been Nightwing since he was a teenager? Wow. While I was drinking gin and tonic, evading the law, and playing my coquettish Catwoman routine, he… holy kitty litter. He just graduated high school.

She pressed her forehead, eyes darting, voice trembling.

Selina (whispering, spiraling): That’s why he was so nervous when— Oh that’s why he hid in the kitchen. I gave him graham crackers when he was ten, and now I’ve propositioned him for sex. I’m going to hell.

Selina gulped feeling bile rise in her throat.

Bruce: What's wrong?

Selina (nervous): Nothing! Um… Bruce, I might’ve met Nightwing before I knew who he really was. I knew you two knew each other, but I didn’t realize he was your son, the cute little Robin you adopted after his parents died.

Bruce: Yes, and?

Selina: I was mad at you. I thought flirting with Nightwing, who I believed was an adult- which in retrospect wouldn't excuse how I acted. Anyways I was being petty and flirted with him.

Selina scratched her head laughing nervously.

Selina (fanning her face): Whew, is it warm in here?

Alfred: You want to tell her?

Bruce: Alfred, she’s got something important to say first. Selina, whatever it was, you can tell me.

Selina: You won’t be mad?

Bruce: Depends on where you’re going with this.

Selina: Yeah, fair. I had no idea he was the first Robin, how old he was, or that... sweet Jesus— I sound like one of those creeps from To Catch a Predator!

Bruce: No, no. They’re lying on those shows while being fully aware they're committing a crime. You were unaware he was my teenage son. While I'm not happy you used him for that, your reaction now is reassuring. Did you do anything with him?

Selina: Kind of... Well no, but hear me out... I never kissed him or did anything sexual, thankfully. He turned me down every time, and after a while, I just thought he was a prude. We didn’t talk again after he shooed me away.

Bruce: He said he was still bound by his vow of celibacy?

Selina: Yes. Oh God, I propositioned my boyfriend’s son for sex.

She covered her mouth, nearly vomiting, her face flushing with embarrassment. Bruce crossed his arms hiding his enjoyment, while Alfred chuckled.

Selina: He had to be eighteen or nineteen when I last talked to him! I thought he was in his early twenties, mid at worst.

Bruce: Nope. Nineteen. He watched a lot of SpongeBob back then, too.

Selina: SpongeBob? That’s adorable. I get it too, that's a pretty funny show.

Bruce: Well—

Alfred: Bruce, just let it go.

Bruce: I don’t get the hype, and I’ll say my opinion every time.

Alfred rolled his eyes. Selina, meanwhile, lowered her hands, face burning with shame.

Selina: Something in my mind told me to back off, but I went with my feelings instead.

Alfred: He would squirm talking about it too. So bloody funny.

Bruce: Alfred, do you have to be here?

Alfred: I love this kind of drama. You know I do.

Bruce: Unfortunately. Selina, relax. Dick already told me everything.

Selina: I need to apologize to D— Richard— wait, he told you?

Bruce: Yeah. About a year after we made amends. He wanted to know if I’d ever had sex with Barbara. I almost lost my lunch when he asked. We have that in common, Selina.

Selina (placing a hand on her head): You flirted with your friends daughter?

Bruce: God no. Jim said he'd shoot me in the crotch if I ever did too. I respect it.

Selina: Same and that means we’re not completely close. I want to vomit. When he was Robin, he made me so happy, the little boy who wore that Robin suit you adopted when his parents died. I wanted a son, because he was so sweet. I can't believe I didn’t connect the dots…

Bruce (leaning forward, whispering): I made a similar mistake with who someone really was outside of the mask. It never crossed my mind to woo Barbara, since she became like family. I focused on Batman. But I nearly fell off a roof when I found out she was the daughter of Commissioner Gordon.

Alfred: That was the second time you nearly fell off a roof while with a Gordon. That’s always good for a laugh.

Bruce: Yeah, what Alfred said. The mind blocks out a lot. I was surprised you hadn’t guessed who the others were after I unmasked myself. But I also worried, what if she’d defend that she asked my teenage son for to go back to her apartment and have sex? I'd snap and call you every name in the book cause I don't agree with people who do that fully aware.

Selina (covering her eyes again): Aww, that’s so fatherly. This might be the worst thing I’ve ever done. I'm so sorry.

Bruce: You're forgiven and all that, but it's not the robberies, or working with villains, or that time you—

Selina: That was just me living on the edge. I’ve become a better person. You made bad choices too, being reckless, your rainbow-colored suit, the time you tripped on your cape, or when you stabbed Joker in the hand.

Alfred: She’s got you there.

Bruce chuckled in agreement.

Selina: Bruce, I’m sorry. Besides not knowing it was who he was, how I acted with him to get back you was wr- wr- damn this is difficult. I was... in the wrong. I want this to work, not be that petty. Pettiness is fun, but not this.

Alfred: She’s really changing.

Bruce: Alfred, go pretend to dust the weapons or something.

Alfred shrugged, humming as he walked off. Bruce sighed, lowering his girlfriend's hands from her face then placed a hand on her knee.

Bruce: I’m guilty of wanting to make you jealous, too. You came onto my son, but you’re not defending your actions, and I married Talia. We made mistakes, but no laws were broken. You don’t have to apologize to me. Honestly, I find this pretty funny.

Selina (pouting): Glad you’re amused, I feel like vomiting.

Bruce: That’s why it’s funny. I love ironic humor, even if I can’t laugh right now, my ribs are still healing. Come on, that’s funny.

Selina let out a soft laugh, her tension easing as she continued to chuckle, head bowed, hand on her forehead.

Bruce: The world hasn’t exploded. I’m not cutting ties. Everything’s fine. But I’m not the one you should be apologizing to. He’s upstairs, probably in the kitchen or his old bedroom.

Selina: What if I avoid him forever? Never bring this up? Or get someone to wipe our memories?

Bruce: Avoiding him would be difficult. We made amends, and I want to keep that relationship good. Ignoring it would only cause unnecessary tension and awkwardness, and erasing that every awkward moment from your mind would only lead to that third act in the Jim Carrey movie.

Selina: You know all this, but you struggle to do the middle option thing?

Bruce: I’ve been aware of the irony since the ‘90s. I know what I’m talking about. It’s a weight off your shoulders to do the right thing, talk to him. Dick isn’t going to be hostile, and he won’t run away. I think he wants to settle this, but a lot of things happened that got in the way. Take him to an arcade or something.

Selina (joking): What about Chuck E. Cheese?

Bruce: You’re joking, but he does like the pizza there. You might be onto something.

Selina (playfully shoving her boyfriend): You’re being so unserious about all this. But honestly, it’s helping.

She then stood up, sighing.

Bruce: Want me to come with you?

Selina: Not yet. Just wish me luck, and don’t send Alfred follow me. I can tell he’s messy and loves secondhand embarrassment.

Bruce: You’re not wrong. He watches a lot of trash reality TV. Good luck.

Selina took the long walk up the stairs in the Batcave to the main part of the manor, burdened with a necessary but awkward task.

Pt 1

To be continued... currently deciding if Chuck E Cheese is the best place for this since the pizza was lowkey good, but I don't want to infantilize a grown man, but like... if I was Selina I'd be spiraling too lol.

[muffinlance]

Hey fic rec time! I didn't do these often so you KNOW it's good

If you like Star Wars and Mandos and falling in love with character dynamics you'll never be able to find again because OP just smooshed together things that never existed before

May I introduce you to:

Mando'jekai jedi by Anonymous

Yes Anonymous come out here OP so I can put you in a little jar and provide you optimal writing enrichment and maybe shake you a little to see how you work

Author Summary:

Feemor saves a random Mandalorian and earns himself the position of Jedi watchman for the sector. Now if only the mandos would stop hunting him so that he can investigate this terrorist cell in peace.

Jaster really wants to talk to the jedi who slapped the darksaber into his hands before running off. Now if only the haat'ade could track him down.

My Summary:

Feemor Gives Mandalorians a Life-Changing Field Trip (No They Cannot Exit This Ride): The Fic

The writing is so smooth the humor is HIGH-LARIOUS the angst is wrapped up in the humor which is wrapped up in outsider POV

It's like you went to Fic Restaurant and the waiter slapped the menu out of your hand and said "I've got the good shit" and you were too terrified to protest that actually you were just here for a little hurt/comfort fix-it fic but when they came back

Oh damn

Oh that is the good shit

Anyway click this it's the good shit

[scarapanna]

Calm before the storm [Wavering Lies!AU]

After having faced the first half of his sentence, Shadow Milk Cookie reflects on what transpired days prior. Alone with only himself, his confinements, and his thoughts.

This, unfortunately for the beast, is not bound to last for long.

clank…clank…clank

Absentmindedly, the captive beast would play around with his restraints, letting the chains keeping his wrists close to one another clash together repeatedly.

It had been a few days after his capture, he still recalled everything. The fight, the unfair odds against him, the sheer luck those crumbs had been blessed with…and his embarassing defeat.

What happened after? A good chunk of it, he didn't recall. He was down for who knows how long before waking back up in a cell similiar to the one he was currently held in.

The past week? Went by quickly, in all honesty. He remembered his multiple attempts to break out during those council meetings, back when he still had all of his power…

…back when that MAT hadn't convinced everyone to forcefully snatch it away from him.

Now? He had been sentenced to a seal. No, not like that rotten old tree..but somehow just as, if not WORSE that it. Thanks to it, he couldn't accest his power, he couldn't shapeshift NOR summor anything. He couldn't access his other-realm anymore…he just

couldn't

do

ANYTHING.

He HATED it.

The beast would look at his hands, then at his wrists..before violently yanking his whole body forward in frustration.

His magic was like a part of him, something he had since his baking. It felt just as important as lifepowder to a beast, it was part of him. A component now crudely ripped out of his dough.

Without it he felt severely impaired. So…weak. Frail. Defenseless..

He never wanted this, it was the worst kind of dreadful….

HE HATED IT

He'd yerk forward once more, at full force…but to no avail. To ensure his stay, those rotten pests had put him in chains. CHAINS! Around his legs, his neck, his wrists…the last he dreaded he most, considering those restraints served two functions.

That of keeping him here AND prohibiting his access to magic.

He felt like he was some sort of cakehound.

However, before he could thrash a third time in frustration, the beast would be alerted by some chattering outside of his cell door. At this hour? How strange…

The noise seemingly came from two or three cookies conversating…one voice was freakishly familiar.

it was HIM..

"Oh no no, I'd rather be alone this time. Thank you for the offer."

Soon, he'd hear two of the figures leave, signaled by faint footsteps growing farther and farther..

..next, someone would turn the key to his cell door, which would would creak open, bringing with it that dreaded confirmation.

He stiffened, narrowing his eyes at the figure.

That THIEF.

..___________________..

"..Shadow Milk Cookie."

The beast would look up, stiffing his posture at the one before him.

"What do you want?"

He'd bark out, irritated. Pure Vanilla knew the reason why.

"I just wanted to pay you a visit."

The ancient carefully closed the door behind him, snuffing out the noise coming from the outside all over again.

"How are you faring?"

No response.

"..hm, I see."

He'd walk closer, before searching for something inside his cape. Pure Vanilla would then find what he had been looking for after a small struggle, and would pull out something from a small pouch.

The sweet, easily recognizable smell would manage to catch his predecessor's attention. That frown remained…yet his eyes quickly locked on the unexpected "gift".

A small victory for the healer.

"I've brought some jellies with me, would you like any?"

Holding one of his hands out, he'd offer a few to the cookie of deceit…He might have been hungry, he figured.

He only recieved a glare.

"…I suppose not."

The healer would retreat his hand, putting back those few jellies in that pouch.

Tension was only rising the more they stayed inside, just the two of them.

Usually, Shadow Milk was notorious for his chatter. It was an aspect Pure Vanilla's been told about many, many times during the week he'd spent imprisoned in the republic. Outside of council meetings the jester's behaviour would have been reported many, many times as well. Mostly by guards venting out their frustrations with him.

Now, the atmosphere was much much different. Both had fallen silent for a good while until the ancient decided to resume their one sided "discussion"

is there an--"

"Shut up."

Though it seemed Shadow Milk wanted to hear none of it.

"…just answer my question, and scram. I don't want to be interrogated by the likes of you."

The beast bared his teeth, his words oozing pure hatred and venom from each and every letter.

With his magic gone, Pure Vanilla figured anyone wold be upset. But this had to be done to ensure everyone was safe. He didn't want to risk the lives of many by letting a beast loose.

He'd sigh, turning to the ground.

"Well….I was wondering if you'd reconsider my proposal."

No response.

He'd turn to Shadow Milk's face, returning his stare.

"Do you still want to keep this incessant fighting…or would you rather settle this once and for all?"

The beast looked at him, then at his souljam, and then back to the ancient. His eyes widening as he'd repeat his words.

"….once and for all..

you…

…YOU!!!--"

After a beat of silence, Shadow Milk sent him glare. And thightly clenched his fists. Shaking in sheer fury, he'd start stomping his feet to the ground, immediately rejecting his successor's offer…just like he'd done many times prior.

"HOW DARE YOU!!"

He'd spat, violently yanking the chains holding him in place.

"DO YOU REALLY THINK I'D ACCEPT YOUR PATHETIC TRICKS? YOU…YOU TOOK MY EVERYTHING! My other-realm, MY SOULJAM!"

Pure Vanilla frowned, retreating his hand..but not faltering in front of the beast.

Deep down, he doubted Shadow Milk really regretted any of his actions. That was certain. The way he boasted and congratulated himself for his victories, how prideful it made him..deception never really left this cookie, but meaning surely did. This scene before him was…sad, dare he say even pitiful.

However, it wasn't his turn to talk just yet.

That cookie of deceit, depowered and weak, had only paused to catch his breath. In fact, he still had the energy for more crude, unfiltered jabs at his successor.

He grit his teeth, glaring at the ancient in fury.

"And still..you weren't done tormenting me, oh no no no.. You still stole the last bit of freedom I had left! All that was ME ..my POWER, MY STRENGHT!! YOU.. YOU FRAUD!!!"

The sound of his furious yelling and clattering bindings would echo around the room, yet still failed to convey the full extent of the ex-virtue's thrashing. With all of his might, he'd push himself forward twice, as if trying to yank his body right in Pure Vanilla's direction. If he wasn't binded, he'd probably lunge at him.

Pure Vanilla didn't waver, and waited as the beast tried again and again to free himself. To somehow break those chains and get back his seized freedom.

The healer observed as he gradually started to tire out, his wild yanks growing weaker and weaker…until he nearly fell over, fatigued. With his head hanging low, that cookie would tremble and pant in exhaustion. The concept of not having that revoked power, the power to break free with little to no difficulty still appeared alien to the beast. Even from an outsider perspective.

"Once I get it back….you'll wish to have crumbled in my spire."

Despite everything, Shadow Milk still kept stubborn. He forced his head up, to look back at the ancient.

"Mark.

My.

WORDS."

Right after that one final threat, he'd collapse to his knees. In silence, he only kept trembling and breathing heavily. Clearly impaired by the lack of remaining energy to yell at his successor.

The ancient's gaze would soften.

"Stop overexerting yourself, Shadow Milk. You're tired. You'll risk hurting yourself that way."

Without hesitance, Pure Vanilla would step towards the restrained beast. The space between the two of them growing smaller.

He'd glance at him, with a glimpse of sympathy in his eyes..before shaking his head to finally speak the truth. His truth.

"I'm not trying to force you into a friendship, Shadow Milk. We still have our…differences. For the time being, I believe it wouldn't work out. We both, for our own reasons, are not yet ready…. but-"

He'd look away, facing the entrance to that cell. It felt much, much more distant than when he first entered…but he wouldn't care. He was here for a reason, and that reason was to try and talk. To fully understand what caused Shadow Milk's fall. To fully understand why he was so…lost compared to when he'd last seen him.

Just what transpired after he left?

"-- if we could stop this…constant back and forth, even just for a short while then.."

He'd take another step, closing the large gap between them just a little more.

Turning around, Pure Vanilla placed one hand on the bottom of his souljam's brooch. His gaze directed towards the item for a moment…before going back to the chained beast.

"…I could show you a better way. I want to show you a better way. A way that doesn't give short-term glee and satisfaction, or a short-lived escape…but true, long-term fulfillment."

He opened his eyes.

"This is why, back in that spire, I've offered you my friendship."

He'd take another step. Determined.

"We don't have to fight forever, we don't have to clash against eachother. War, revenge…it doesn't bring true happyness."

The beast didn't respond. He didn't, in fact, even try to look at him. And only kept facing the ground troughout his entire speech. His expression? Unreadable..

..until he'd crack a smile..

"…he…ha ha…. hahahaha.. "

Before Pure Vanilla was able to question him, he'd be interrupted by a burst of laughter.

".. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!! YOU HYPOCRITE!"

Shadow Milk would lift his head back up, still on his knees, and now with the word amusement plastered on his face. He'd keep giggling uncontrollably, driven to the point of tears by the sheer hilarity of what he'd just heard.

As he'd recollect himself, the jester would manage to wipe a tear with one of his restrained hands. A newfound grin plastered on his face.

"Do you really think anyone would believe you? If revenge brings "nothing but emptiness" …then I wouldn't even BE here! In fact, I wasn't even doing anything wrong!"

Pure Vanilla would narrow his eyes and shake his head. No, he didn't share the same sentiment.

"You've still harmed cookies, and that brings consequences. Even with understanding, those actions aren't justified."

The ancient spoke from his heart..yet the beast didn't seem to care, as per usual.

His smile dropped a little, and he'd glare at the healer.

If anything, all he seemed interested in doing was wearing down his will. And so, he'd make another attempt to do just that.

"Deep down, I know what you are. I can tell how much fear my mere presence instills in you, it is glaringly obvious! I bet you even have.. GASP n-n-n-n-nightmares? Oh you poor, poor thing. Otherwise, why would you sentence me to this?..Justice? Safety? HA! How utterly HILARIOUS."

He'd only keep going, just as his target kept not giving him the reaction he wanted.

"This idea of friendship you have is merely a ploy to get what you want, selfishness masked as selflessness…easy-peasy! Out of everyone, do you really expect me to fall for that? pfft.. HA HA HA HA HA!!

…You truthly are pathetic."

Afterwards, the room would fall in complete and utter silence once more. Both parties stared at eachother, undoubtedly, with no victory or loss. If anything, they'd reached not a conclusion..but rather a stalemate.

Pure Vanilla took the next move.

"…very well then."

Shadow Milk would jerk back, confused.

"what?"

He'd move backwards a bit, giving the weakened beast some space before taking on a more formal demeanor.

"I'm here to tell you something else. Other cookies refused to come…so I've volunteered to do so instead."

He'd move a hand on his mouth, clearing his throat before continuing.

"Tomorrow, you will be allowed outside…that is, without magic and under supervision, to ensure no one is hurt. These are the terms decided by the council."

Having informed that cookie, his duty was done, and Pure Vanilla would turn to start walking back towards the cell door. He'd gently open it, a soft creaking echoing trough the room.

Before leaving, he looked back at Shadow Milk for one last time.

"..if you want to change your mind one day, my offer still stands."

He recieved only a scoff...and a possible warning in response.

"Tch, you're just being delusional."

Of course, he'd expect the beast to still refuse his proposal. It was, arguably, predictable…but he woudn't give up just yet.

He gave him one small smile before closing the door behind him.

"..goodnight."

[spacetimeaccordionfolder]

Why Let the Offal Go to Waste?

Thought about this post too long and wrote this in two hours!

Note, this started as me musing in the tags on that post and then i had 4 paragraphs as a reblog before stopping and moving to a doc, so it starts without much of an introduction. I might recommend reading the post first for more context. I think I want to write a slightly longer version of this with more of an intro, so this is Why Let the Offal Go to Waste (prime) essentially.

Kayne thinking about Arthur being his and eating his heart, 846 words.

@fortheglowingeyes

What is - no, was - what was wrong with him?! Why was Arthur Lester different? Was that Lillith's fault -that was what he'd said - she'd watched him as a child, let him survive then and well that clearly had meant something or.

Or. Or something else. Something else made him different. Something Kayne couldn't see. Something that let Arthur survive and come out better. To talk of hope like there could be hope in a universe made by an uncaring, unthinking, dreaming THING!

His thumbnail punctured Arthur's heart, small stream of blood rolling down his thumb. Kayne stared at the first drop as it moved, as it moved across his wrist before meeting his shirt sleeve, joining the rest of Arthur's blood that had soaked there. More blood moved along the bottom of his pinky finger.

The voices in his head quieted to a whisper watching the drop, as it half rolled down to the shirt sleeve, half seemed drawn by gravity towards the ground, to the rest of Arthur beneath him and the blood around them. Torn between them. Slowly, carefully, lest the drop fall before its time, Kayne brought his hand towards his mouth - leaning closer - and wiped away the indecisive drop with his tongue.

The taste of Arthur’s blood bloomed in his mouth like a fine wine. Kayne closed his eyes, savoring the taste. He’d tasted others, of course, but this was his Arthur. 

His Arthur who hated being told what to do, who he couldn’t see coming, who was a fascinating, annoying, mystery, who lived and struggled and survived. Who wouldn’t live to fit another’s mold, to be confined to living for another’s purpose. Who could not be just the happenstance of a blind idiot’s dream! Azathoth didn’t think, didn’t feel, see, care, listen, or know anything! Didn’t have hidden designs unfolding, didn’t have a plan to make things better or any reason for the suffering in those smaller than him, didn’t extend a hand to his children when they begged him to answer, to acknowledge them, to hear words they said and to respond in some way.

No, his Arthur Lester was more than a spec from Azathoth’s dream. 

Arthur Lester was Kayne’s.

Kayne had killed him. He’d cradled his face as he cried and gurgled and the little king begged and wept. The body below - and on - him had been irreparably changed by Kayne, torn asunder, made into something new. A design that was not Azathoth’s. A work of art that was entirely Kayne’s.

There was still that something one of the voices in his head murmured, breaking the moment. The something that made him survive, made him an anomaly. What Kayne hadn’t understood. The something, he thought annoyed towards the voice, was Lillith. Discontent passed through his head. Was it? Was that really right? It must be.

Or - oh look, we’ve come full circle - he was something different. An anomaly like Kayne, not like the mold they were supposed to fill and Kayne still had no idea why.

And would never know.

Arthur Lester was dead. Kayne had seen to that. And there was a small part of him that Kayne didn’t know and couldn’t make his.

Kayne opened his eyes. While thinking, his hand had moved away from his face - blood running less now - but it was still close enough to take up the majority of his vision.

An idea occurred to him. One that seemed to be funnier the longer he let it linger in his mind. A small chuckle turned into Kayne doubled over with manic laughter, forehead nearly touching Arthur’s, his hand holding Arthur’s heart tucked between them, nearly against his own. Eventually, Kayne sighed, sat back upright, and looked at Arthur’s heart.

There was something different about Arthur. Something Kayne didn’t know. Something that wasn’t Kayne’s, wasn’t his. But it could be.

Kayne raised the heart to his lips and smiled. Softly kissed the muscle. Whispered against it “thank you.” Then bit down. Muscle and fat tore slowly, severing under his teeth, ripping, blood flowing, and Oh god if he thought Arthur’s blood was divine the experience of this was heaven anew. He savored the taste, the feeling of the heart, chewing slowly, before swallowing and looking at the heart again. Now missing a bite sized part of it.

Kayne could make that something his, could make all of Arthur a part of him. When killing the other versions of himself, he’d never done something like this. He’d made their worlds his, added them to himself, made himself the entirety of his soul, but to consume and transform like this…

Arthur’s body would be transformed into his, staying with him, belonging to him, being him. Not Azathoth’s, Kayne’s. Would be made entirely new, even whatever it was that made his Arthur Lester different, kept him alive. That too would be Kayne’s - maybe it would help Kayne in his Wager. 

Arthur Lester wasn’t entirely Kayne’s, not yet. But he would be.

Kayne took another bite of Arthur’s heart, this one even better than the first. 

[dae-15]

ok, so I just saw on a tiktok comment that Jason Todd is ao3 author coded and that he probably uses the author's note to trauma dump (as one does) AND NOW I just need a fanfic in which this is how they found out he's alive cause Tim is subscribed to his ao3 account or something LIKE??? PLSSSSSS

[mochiwrites]

gentle touch of morning

( a small scarian epic au piece <3 reblogs do more than likes! )

It’s funny. 

Over the twelve long years Scar spent fighting, leading his men into battle, the thought that kept him going was his eventual homecoming. Every waking thought was of his husband and son, and Scar’s reason for living, for breathing, was his family. As he sailed rocky waters, faced monsters and gods alike, lost men after men, Scar wished for nothing more than to be home, to awake with his husband sleeping beside him. 

But as he stands in his home, the one he most intimately knows, Scar feels… wrong. Out of place. He’d woken up early, savoring the sight of Grian’s sleeping face (he could never get tired of it), and felt so restless that staying in bed for any longer seemed impossible. So Scar took to walking around his home. 

He and Grian built this place up, together. The memories are some that Scar looks back on fondly. He could never forget it, no matter how much time he spent away from it. Scar only fears that it has forgotten him. 

Scar takes easy steps, walking and reacquainting himself. He notes the pictures, most of them being of his son. He hardly sees Grian in any of them, perhaps one or two, less than a handful. And the ones that Grian is in, his smile doesn’t light up his face. It makes Scar frown. 

He wanders for a bit, traversing each winding hallway with careful movements. It’s as if he fears the house may collapse at any moment, or some attacker may jump from the shadows, perhaps a god will catch him off guard and finish him off. Not even in his home does he feel the full safety he’s supposed to. These walls feel foreign, unfamiliar. Even if he can picture everything clearly in his mind, knows this place like the back of his hand. Scar still feels like a stranger. 

Eventually, he finds himself in the kitchen. He pauses in the doorway, catching sight of another person. 

His son. 

His little Pitta. 

Well, not as little anymore, as a young boy at fourteen. But to Scar it still feels like he’s just an infant that he could cradle in his arms. Another thing time robbed him of. So many missed moments, opportunities, to watch his son grow. And while Scar knows that there are still many years to come, to see, a piece of him mourns the time he lost.

For a moment, Scar keeps quiet. He watches his son, taking in his dark brown hair and hazel colored eyes. He’s the striking image of both Scar and Grian somehow, even if they aren’t related to him. But Scar loves him all the same; would move mountains to give him whatever he needed. He can’t help but wonder what kind of person his son is, what he likes and dislikes. Does he resent Scar for leaving? Does he consider Scar his father, or a stranger who left a loving husband alone for years on end? He doesn’t want to find out. Not now. 

Scar stands there until he can’t anymore, finding hazel eyes landing on him. He watches the way in which Pitta’s eyes light up, turning all shiny and bright when he notices his father. He turns away from the counter, abandoning the slices of bread he had taken out. He smiles, and gods, does his smile look like Grian’s. “Papa!” Pitta greets, the timbre of his voice cheerful and soft. 

“Hey, Pitta,” Scar returns, heart melting each time he’s reminded that he’s finally returned home. He never thought it would happen, that maybe it’d take him longer, or maybe something would strike him down on the way back. But against all odds, fourteen years, and Scar is home. His son stands in front of him. 

“What’re you doing awake? Is dad up too?” Pitta questions, raising a brow at him. 

“Uh…” Scar blanks, unsure of what to say. It’s not like he’s going to tell the truth, Pitta shouldn’t have to worry about him. Scar has already caused him enough pain, there’s no need to cause more now that he’s actually here. “Gria— your dad’s still asleep,” he stammers. The words feel awkward on his tongue, like they shouldn’t be there. This life of domesticity… he doesn’t know how to go about it. It isn’t just some enemy he can cut down. 

The very thought makes him nauseous. 

“Oh!” Pitta blinks at the response. “Well, that’s… good.” He nods to himself awkwardly, and Scar hides a grimace. 

He… really doesn’t know how to interact with his son. 

There’s this dark curdling of doubt in his mind that begins to creep up, settling over him. He’s afraid. Worried that this is one thing he’ll never overcome. It’s a familiar feeling, an old friend, a once enemy turned begrudging shadow. It’s a feeling he experienced in battle, traversing home, taking his castle back from scoundrels that dare to stain it. But there is a new fear that joins it, overwhelming like a tidal wave. 

Does he even know how to be a father? 

Scar feels his breath sharpen just a tad, skipping a beat and hastening. He can feel hands curling around his throat, beginning to press into his skin. He feels it tightening on him, the grip firm. The pressure starts off as something light, until the fingers of Fear dig deeper with each shakingly quiet breath. It gets stronger and stronger, straining his lungs until he can feel his throat being squeezed, choked. 

“Papa?” Pitta’s voice breaks him from the spiraling thoughts, from the overwhelming fear sneaking in. 

The hands around his neck relax, and the terror recedes, sinking back into the depths of his mind momentarily. He allows himself a moment to breathe, a chance to suck in a soft breath and recenter. His vision clears, and he becomes aware of the way his heartbeat pounds in his ears, loud like a drum. 

He manages a smile, “I’m uh, gonna go check and see if our Sleeping Beauty is awake.” Keeping his eyes trained on his son, Scar tries to maintain his light smile. He takes a few small steps back, slipping into a casual mask. He’s gotten quite good at it over the years of putting on a brave face. “Be right back.”

Pitta watches him, brows creasing in concern as he goes. “Oh… okay,” he answers, sounding resigned as Scar retreats. 

Scar turns around, and brings himself back to the beautiful olive tree where his Grian is fast asleep. The sun shines down on him, cutting through the green leaves. The light spills into their bed, painting a halo in the soft yet sandy blond locks of Grian’s hair. He rests in their bed, eyes shut and face relaxed. His body is curled somewhat, the blanket tucked just over his shoulders. 

Staring at him, taking in the near angelic sight, Scar takes a few breaths to calm himself. He walks over to their bed, sitting down on the edge, right beside Grian. He contents himself with just sitting there, watching the rise and fall of Grian’s chest. It feels a little easier to breathe, with the love of his life right here, peaceful. Scar can almost allow himself to pretend he lives in a world where he never went to war, where he never had to leave his family behind. He can almost allow himself to pretend he was the husband and father he should have been. 

Chest aching and overflowing with doubt and regret, Scar reaches out. Tenderly, Scar brushes some of Grian’s hair away from his face. He ever so softly tangles his fingers in the silky strands as he rhythmically cards through his hair. Scar’s expression softens, chest swelling with love for the man before him. He drags the pads of his fingertips along Grian’s head, feeling the soft locks under his touch. 

He can’t imagine what it was like, doing so much alone for so long. Scar has always believed Grian to be strong, the strongest person he knows. But this? Scar doesn’t think anyone could compare, not even the gods. 

Not in the way it matters, at least. 

His thumb idly strokes Grian’s cheekbone, loving and sweet. “I’d be lost without you, my light,” he murmurs. Because it’s true. Scar would’ve given up a long, long time ago if he didn’t have Grian and Pitta to come home to. Grian is his rock, his eye of the storm, his compass. Scar is caught within Grian’s orbit, forever wrapped up in him. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for this man. Grian kept their home in one piece. He raised their son. He handled whatever it was that Scar couldn’t in his time away. Grian held out hope for fourteen years that Scar would come back to him. 

Scar owes him everything and more. But most importantly, Scar owes him his love. And by the gods will he offer every last ounce of it, every drop. Scar is a man. No general, and certainly no hero. He is just a man who wants to pour his heart and soul out for his spouse. Scar is just a man in love. 

Beneath his touch, Grian’s face twitches, and he begins to stir. “Mmm… Scar?” he mumbles, still groggy and waking up. 

“Good morning, my love.” Scar smiles at him, brushing away a particular curl of hair before stroking his cheek. “Sleep well?”

“‘ink so, yes. It was warm with you,” Grian answers, leaning into the hand on his cheek. “What’re you awake for?” 

Scar pauses, if only briefly. “Uh, well, y’know. Just admiring my pretty husband while I have the chance,” he answers, which isn’t entirely a lie. 

Grian looks at him with clear suspicion, but doesn’t push. Instead, he sighs quietly as pushes himself to sit up. “You can do that when I’m awake too,” he teases, leaning to press their lips together. Scar is more than happy to sink into it, using the hand on Grian’s cheek to angle his head slightly, deepening it. The kiss is sweet, loving. It’s slow and patient, carrying the patience of fourteen years within it.

When they pull away, Scar rests their foreheads together. “I guess I can, yeah,” he agrees softly. “Mind if I take a few more minutes to admire him?” 

Grian smiles, kissing the corner of his mouth in return. “I suppose.”  Scar simply smiles, and gods is he happy to be home. No amount of fear could ever leave him unhappy to be back with the loves of his life. Never. 

[kittenw0lf]

My therapist once told me that she would love to read some of my writing

I think I'm going to print out some of my spirk stuff and give it to her tomorrow

[burningcheese-merchant]

I'm really sorry for asking, I hope this isn't an intrusive question. You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but I've noticed you've toned down your burningcheese posts. Are you taking a break? I hope this ask doesn't come around as being demanding or intrusive. I just really miss seeing burningcheese since there's hardly anything on the tags anymore from what I've noticed. If you are taking a break, please don't feel pressured to answer this post. You deserve a break after everything that's happened

Have I? Doesn't really seem like that to me... But I guess I don't know? Feels like I've been posting and reblogging stuff about them like usual. I guess not? I've been posting a lot about the fankids recently, is that it? Those don't count as burningcheese posts? Haha

But yeah uh I'm sorry if I've given that impression. This ship is still infecting my brain all day every day dont worry haha. I guess i just. I haven't been doing well recently. Nothing to do with internet drama or anything I don't care about that. I've been facing a lot of genuine hardship irl. and i guess it's starting to show on here? Maybe? I'm not really sure. In any case i do apologize if it seems like I'm losing interest or anything like that. Promise I'm not. I'm always thinking about them lol they're a plague. They're a curse. Devsisters owes me reparations at this point. Or rent money for the space in my brain they've been squatting in. Tenant's rights don't exist in my mindscape, they're in big trouble

[writing-is-hard-af]

So far, this has been three of three episodes since we came back that felt like they were pulled straight from ao3, how am I meant to cope with this?

[eon-tries-writing]

hi everyone, i want to write my first fanfic but im not sure what to write it about (or how it works so any tips are appreciated!!)

and i was going to make a poll about what universe to make the fic for but i honestly only know enough about Hazbin Hotel and the MCU to write about them

[luvo27]

yeah i think that anyone who writes women centric dc and especially batman fic will understand why there's not a lot of it posted. it can be crushing to get less than 10 kudos within the first several days after posting something that you spent hours upon hours working on in what is a large fandom